Pentos — The Harbor of Cloying Sweetness, The City of Calculation
It is the Free City of Essos closest to King's Landing, the capital of Westeros.
Before the ship even docked, the wind delivered the "scent" of Pentos—an aroma of wine so sweet it was cloying, almost chewable between the teeth, entangled with the salty sea breeze, lingering and refusing to disperse. They say this is the city's breath, its soul. To me, this is merely Pentos's most direct introduction: Here, everything can be intoxicated, and everything can be tagged with a price for trade.
Pentos was originally ruled by a Prince, chosen from the adult males of forty noble families, ruling for life until death, upon which the next is chosen. Today, Pentos is practically ruled by Magisters. The Prince is still chosen from the forty families, but he bears only ceremonial duties, presiding over balls and feasts.
Peace treaties dictate that Pentoshi cannot own more than twenty warships, cannot hire mercenaries, cannot contract free companies, and cannot maintain an army beyond the city watch. So, this city is weak! Weak enough to pay tribute in gifts, gold, and silver to the Dothraki Horse Lords.
I visited that palace—a gift from the Magisters of Pentos to a Dothraki Khal—standing by the bay with nine high towers, brick walls covered in ivy. That is where a certain story begins; it was worth a visit.
Pentos is a prosperous port city, so the docks here are the most lively and bustling.
The docks were crowded and noisy. Bundles of carpets, colorful as the wings of poisonous butterflies, were piled mountain-high, nearly bending the planks. Merchants stepped forward to greet us, smiles sweeter than wine, words stickier than honey. They raised silver cups, every sentence dripping with "friend" and "respect." But I know clearly—behind every compliment here lies an calculation; every look assesses your value. If you praise his carpet, he has already drafted a price in his mind; if you glance at his slave, he is already speculating if you want to discuss a trade in human flesh. So, I only smiled and nodded, stingy with any genuine praise. In this city, silence is the highest courtesy.
Today I visited three wine merchants and drank no less than ten cups of their proud "heirloom vintages."
Without exception, sweet. Too sweet. Sweet to the point of panic, like drinking syrup. They proudly swirled the amber-purple liquid in goblets, recounting family heritage and secret recipes. But I only thought: With wine like this, the first cup is enjoyment, the second is tolerance, and the third becomes a burden.
True fine wine should make one crave to look back again and again. And I, who have sailed the seas since seven but was never allowed to drink, tasting this so-called "nectar" for the first time, felt only... disappointment.
Before this, due to my age, I had never drunk alcohol. After drinking the Pentoshi sweet wine praised by everyone, my feeling was—these so-called wines are just grape juice for children!
In the afternoon, I went to the vineyards outside the city.
Under the scorching sun, vines were neat, workers bent to harvest; everything was as it had been for centuries. I picked a plump grape near bursting; juice splattered out, deep red as blood. Such perfect fruit... yet only brewed into sweet water to please children. This is a waste, and even more, a disgrace.
The idea in my mind became clearer: This is an opportunity to let the people of this world taste what real wine is! Absolutely a rolling source of wealth! However, I must wait until I return to the Iron Islands to truly experiment—controlling fermentation temperature, or introducing certain dry spices from Dorne to balance the sweetness, improving packaging so the wine can sail farther and longer without spoiling...
The Pentoshi are masters of trade, and I will offer them a trade they never imagined: I don't want to buy your wine; I want to use your grapes and my methods to redefine what wine is. One day, while cursing the wine I brew for stealing the business they are so proud of, they will drink deep of my improved vintage, and my purse will be filled with the money snatched from their hands.
Two and a half years to complete the travel plan is indeed a tight schedule. Most of the time will be spent on the road, so time for sightseeing in cities is destined to be limited. In the end, I stayed in Pentos for a total of fourteen days.
From the trip to Pentos, a total of 2600 Points were credited.
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Norvos — Stairs, Bells, and the Shadow of Monks
We arrived at this city severed by theocracy and stone walls. Norvos is not one city, but two—one suspended atop a high hill, one crawling in the river valley, connected by the renowned "Sinner's Steps." A height of three hundred feet separates not just wealth and poverty, but two completely different lives.
The Upper City is locked tight by massive stone walls, the fortress of the Bearded Priests. Life here is as hard and cold as its architecture. Summers are sweltering and humid, winters bone-chillingly cold, and the only thing that never ceases is the endless sound of prayer from the temples. Everything is shrouded in a solemn, dull, suffocating piety.
But their goods are tangible: thick textiles sufficient to withstand the salty winds of the Iron Islands, and high-quality timber exactly what we need to rebuild the fleet. I suppressed my temper, intending to exchange gold coins and silence for what we needed. I conferred with those monks; they wore rough hemp robes, beards hanging to their waists, eyes devoid of the greed a merchant should have, holding only a bottomless scrutiny. Doing business with them feels strange—as if you aren't bargaining, but conducting a silent confession.
Walking down the "Sinner's Steps" is like falling from an altar into the mortal world. The Lower City is filled with the chants of dockworkers, the low laughter of brothels, and the noise of taverns. The air mixes the bitterness of dark beer and the sourness of fermented goat milk. I tasted their "Wintercake"—a hard cake mixed with ginger, pine nuts, and cherries—washed down with an iron cup of mead-mixed fermented milk called "Nahas." The taste was coarse but distinct, much like the city itself.
Lomas Longstrider calls the bells here a wonder of the world. When I heard the three giant bells toll simultaneously, the roar seeming to come from deep within the mountain belly, shaking the clouds and the human heart, I had to admit—he was right. The sound was solemn, seemingly able to cleanse all sin, yet firmly locking everyone within the order of God.
However, hehe, a group of monks ruling a nation... it suddenly reminded me of certain Buddhist kingdoms in Journey to the West. A very strange feeling. If there is a chance to make these bearded monks walk down the stairs and become true monks without desire or demand, that would certainly be interesting.